


Not That Rich

by CassieIngaben



Series: An Offer You Can't Refuse [4]
Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Happy Ending, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27081955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CassieIngaben/pseuds/CassieIngaben
Summary: He'd learn to swim even if it killed him. Which it wouldn't, because through it all he could feel Dorian's strong, careful grip on his arms. Loving. Gentle. Safe.
Relationships: Dorian Red Gloria/James
Series: An Offer You Can't Refuse [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825087
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3
Collections: From Eroica With Love - Groups Challenges





	Not That Rich

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TelWoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Five Lives Dorian Didn't Lead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/838409) by [TelWoman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman). 



> This story takes up about twenty years after the events of my other story [ Not That Good ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25193644)
> 
> For the eroicaml mailing list 'AU' Challenge 2020.

The scuba diving had been good, and the bar was top class—but of course James had to trust Dorian's judgement about the diving. The way he was currently trusting Dorian to hold him afloat as he splashed about in an un-coordinated and likely undignified paddling. He'd learn to swim even if it killed him. Which it wouldn't, because through it all James could feel Dorian's strong, careful grip on his arms. Loving. Gentle. Safe.

* * *

They lingered on the white beach until the sun grew too hot, then repaired to their hotel room. The bed's cotton sheets were crisp, and smelled of fresh air and sunshine. They sank on it, weary from hours of sun and salt water. At some point, James told himself, he'd be able to join Dorian in his diving excursions and watch his hair float in the water, a glinting cloud in the soft underwater light—just like those documentaries he used to watch as a child, imagining mermen. In the meantime, he contented himself with braiding Dorian's mass of wet hair. He finished twisting the heavy coils, and struggled to tie the braid's end. Dorian turned around with a slight smile, took the hair tie from James's fingers, deftly finished the rope braid off, and tucked the end in to hide the hair tie.

"There."

James mirrored his smile, and Dorian carded his hand through the stark white streak of hair at James's temple.

"Is there anything you want to say, Mr. Red?"

"Lovely. Frankenstein's bride."

James shook his head. "Skunk."

"Bride."

James tugged at Dorian's braid lightly. "Spun gold and filigree silver."

Dorian shrugged self-deprecatingly, and pulled James down onto the bed. Undeterred, James kept petting Dorian's hair. "Gold medal. And silver." His fingers brushed Dorian's chest, tanned from their week in the intense Santorini heat. "And bronze."

Dorian winked. "For endurance sports?"

"Care for the award ceremony?"

Neither of them spoke for a while. Eventually, they lay side by side. Dorian's hair was mostly dry, his braid rather the worse for wear but still holding together, and James played with it languidly. Then he looked up. "Marry me."

Dorian's eyes grew wide.

"Why?"

"You know why."

"Yes."

"Yes to what?"

"Yes I know, and yes I will."

* * *

They debated the respective merits of room service and restaurant. Eventually, the breezy terrace with its spectacular view of the sunset won. When the barrel-chested _maître d'_ magically produced an impromptu celebratory dinner, James suspected Dorian's sleight of hand. Or maybe they were telegraphing louder than he'd thought. James had been slightly worried that a Mediterranean holiday could stir memories best left alone, especially since it was one of Volovolonte's half-apologetic, half-mocking gifts—but Dorian had taken to it unreservedly, and now was beaming at him across the table. James sipped his champagne and let go of his misgivings. He'd put his memories to rest, and proposing was the closest he could bring himself letting Dorian know.

* * *

Despite spending a good part of the night in further, and more private, celebrations James woke up at what Dorian called dawn o'clock. He turned on his side and contemplated the man he'd been waking up next to for almost two decades now. The years had been kind to Dorian: his peaches-and-cream beauty had matured into self-assured handsomeness, casting a bright gold light James basked in day after priceless day. 

And priceless it was. In the soft morning light, James mused how strange it was that two of the most disagreeable people in their lives had actually done Dorian and him a favour. Lupinacci's harrowing _droit de seigneur_ long ago making them realise where they stood. Dorian's estranged mother dying intestate and making him well-off. I'm not that rich, he'd said; but I have enough. Which had given James a fright. Would Dorian leave if he no longer needed James's money?

There had been so many questions. So many ifs. Would Dorian drop his 'damaged goods' refrain and accept that James did see him as an equal—had been seeing him as an equal for a long time? Would he, James, accept that Dorian didn't see him as just a meal ticket—had not been seeing him as just a meal ticket for a long time too?

It wasn't perfect. They'd probably never be free from those little nagging doubts. From the temptation to throw the past in each other's face during a quarrel. The past doesn't matter, James had said on Volovolonte's yacht all those years ago; and Dorian had smiled tentatively and taken his hand.

It wasn't entirely true. The past was still there: but maybe the present would be enough now.


End file.
